Growing up, I was incredibly close to my father. I’m 23 now, but up until a month ago, I was still living with my parents because Dad never wanted me to move out. I had the entire second floor of the house to myself—my bedroom and bathroom were my sanctuary. Or so I thought.

Dad had always been strict, but he balanced it with moments of kindness. He’d often say, “Character is built in discomfort. You’ve got to go through tough times now to live a luxurious life later.” Yet, he’d still bring me chocolates and ice cream when I was feeling down.

My mother, on the other hand, was your typical loving mom—always ready with hugs, kisses, and my favorite home-cooked meals. But recently, something changed. My parents grew distant, the warmth in our home seemed to vanish, and everything became cold.

It wasn’t long before Dad’s complaints began. “You’re too loud with your friends,” “You’re staying out too late,” “You’re wasting money.” But the worst came when he said, “You smell horrible. Go take a cold shower and use the soap I gave you.”

I was shocked. I had never been self-conscious about my hygiene before, but Dad’s words made me question everything. He handed me a strange green soap bar I had never seen before, claiming it would get rid of the unpleasant odor.

From that moment, I couldn’t shake the insecurity. I avoided my boyfriend, Henry, and took multiple showers daily, scrubbing my skin raw with the soap. But no matter how much I washed, Dad kept saying I smelled bad.

The constant humiliation wore me down, and even more hurtful was my mother’s silence. She just stood by and let it happen, saying nothing as I spiraled into self-doubt.

Things took a turn when Henry came over to visit. He noticed I had been distant and asked what was going on. Hesitantly, I asked him if I smelled bad. He laughed, thinking I was joking, but I wasn’t.

Then he went to the bathroom and found the soap bar. His face changed the moment he saw it. “Where did you get this?!” he demanded. “This isn’t soap—it’s used to strip industrial grease and grime! It’s toxic, Amy.”

I felt my heart drop. How could my father do this to me? How could he knowingly give me something that would harm me?

Henry urged me to go to the hospital and report my parents, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t accept that my father had done something so cruel. Instead, I asked Henry to help me move out. Within a few days, we were in a tiny apartment, and for the first time in months, I felt safe.

But I needed answers. So, I went back to confront my father. When I showed him the soap and demanded to know why he gave it to me, he smirked and said, “You needed to learn a lesson.”

That’s when the truth came out. My father revealed that while on vacation, a fortune teller told him my mother had been unfaithful. When he confronted her, she confessed that I wasn’t his biological daughter. Furious, he decided to make her—and me—pay.

“You’re not my daughter,” he said coldly. “You’re not my blood.”

My world crumbled. My father had punished me for something that wasn’t my fault, and my mother had stood by, knowing everything. I told him I was done and that he’d be hearing from my lawyer.

Now, living with Henry, I’m slowly rebuilding my life. I’ve filed a restraining order against my father and started legal proceedings. My mother tries to reach out, but I have no intention of speaking to her. She stood by and let me suffer when I needed her most.

I’m grateful to have Henry by my side. He’s been my rock, helping me find peace and laughter again. Without him, I don’t know where I’d be.